


The Adventures of Slutty!Rickon

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Dark Comedy, Future Fic, Multi, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because someone has to carry on Slutty!Brandon's Stark legacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. News Coming

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rickon/Everyone](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/27070) by littlemissgriff. 



> This is based off a ASOIAF kink me titled "Rickon/Everyone". ;D

Rickon had a colorful sexual history, to say the least.

His brother Bran the current Lord of Winterfell, his sister Arya fighting off wildlings, his other sister married off, and their cousin (brother, he kept accidentally saying) Jon off at the Wall, he had little consistent company other than the vague presence of another in his bed. Or beneath him on a table. Or sitting on his lap. Or... Oh, _Gods_ , what of that time he had his way with the young Sand Snake of Dorne on top of her collection of blades? His scars still hadn't faded from _that_ encounter.

But this particular encounter was nothing special. He was pounding into this boy from the kitchen - Jerrick or Erick or something along those lines. The boy in particular looked rather unfamiliar, tanner than most boys in Winterfell were. He liked to pretend the kitchen boy was younger than him, but, in reality, he was taller and perhaps broader even. But that went against the fantasy aspect of it, and the power he felt as he bent over the Erick-whatever and fucked his brains out.

He didn't bother being gentle. This Erick-whatever didn't seem to be any blushing maiden, so he figured the lad could take him full-on and without restraint. With every thrust, he could hear moans and groans, sounds loud and desperate enough to be embarrassing. It took him a moment to realize that half of those sounds were coming from himself, which made him buck his hips with more force. 

"Oh gods, yes! Fuck me like the wolf you are!" His strange kitchen boy called out in a husky way that Rickon couldn't help but find sexy.

The Stark responded with a growl and an increase in the rhythm of his hips. He himself let out another loud groan of pleasure, his nails digging into Erick-whatever's hips, leaving half-moon pink marks all over his flesh. Every so often he'd lean over and bite the boy on the back hard and lingering, even close to breaking the skin a few times. There were no chaste kisses, no professions of love, and it was **perfect**.

Until his brother opened the door. There was a beat of awkward silence as Brandon Stark took in the scene.  "Rickon, _really_?!" Lord Stark exclaimed, throwing his hands out in frustration.

The two lovers stayed in position, but they stopped moving their bodies in time. Now, their lower bodies were perfectly still as Rickon grinned - only a _little_ nervously- as he gave his brother a mocking salute. "Lord Stark, it _is_ an _honor_. I would bow, but, as you can see, I am a bit preoccupied at the moment."

To which Bran Stark suppressed a frustrated grunt and replied, "Of _all_ the people for you to violate, you choose the _Lord_ of Storm's End?!" What? _Edric Storm?_ No, it couldn't-

But then he looked down at those dark locks and the sheepish smile on the head it was attached to and gasped. No way, he just fucked the Lord of Storm's End! He pulled out quickly and pulled up his breeches, his raging hard-on having faded by this point anyhow. There were Seven Hells of a lot of things that turned on Rickon Stark, but his brother walking in on one of his conquests in action was not one of them.

"Don't you remember that the Baratheons had come for a visit?" His older brother asked him, patience running thin. Now that he had mentioned it, Rickon _vaguely_ remembered a welcoming feast he had skipped to go bed one of the blacksmith's daughters. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he spied Edric quickly pulling up his pants and fastening them. He was wearing practically commoners' clothes! Rickon couldn't be blamed for mistaking him for a servant, but he knew that demanding the unfairness of it wouldn't do him much good. "I deeply apologize, dear brother, and of course to Lord Edric Storm-"

" _Baratheon_ ," Edric corrected quickly. So being a bastard was a sensitive subject for him, was it? Stark didn't doubt that the Stormlands didn't appreciate having a bastard for their Lord, though bastards were all that's left- besides Shireen of course.

"Baratheon," Rickon repeated, to which Bran sighed wearily and grumbled that there were guests waiting for him to greet them. Rickon took the hint and started toward the doorway, before stopping in his tracts. He looked back at the flushed Lord Baratheon with an unspoken question on his lips.

"Well?! Are you coming?" Bran rang out, already in the hallway once more.

"I was going to, before you bloody well came in," Rickon snapped, yet followed his brother out all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon visits with the other Baratheons. And then has sex with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might length the storyline or write a sequel depending on interest. For now though, it's fairly likely the story will end within 4 to 5 chapters.
> 
> Next chapter will include a bit of a time skip and center on Lyanna Mormont, Edric Storm (I mean, Baratheon, of course), an OC, and Rickon Stark, certainly.

For an hour, Rickon Stark sat across the dusty westerwood table from Shireen Baratheon and her makeshift family of Mya Stone, Myrcella Lannister, and Edric _Baratheon,_ among others who he did not recognize. Rickon always knew of her as the only heir of the Former King Stannis, the Baratheon who no one had ever suspected would survive to adulthood. Yet, here she was, the last remaining trueborn Baratheon.

The loneliest Baratheon too, if the look in her eyes were any indication. That might have been why she was so determined to get her bastard cousins legitimized. Taking it a step further, she had welcomed Myrcella into her home, the bastard child between Lannisters disguised as a Baratheon. She had every right to turn them away, yet she took them in and treated them as her family. Except for Gendry, of course, who had pledged his life to serve Arya, nearly every Baratheon bastard was under Shireen's care and protection. Rickon didn't understand it, though he supposed humanitarians had larger hearts only to be filled by the less fortunate. 

"Are you still looking for a lord to wed our dear Myrcella?" Rickon drawled out, thumb and index finger rotating the wine glass in his hand. It took him every effort to resist looking Myrcella's way, considering their history- or mayhaps because of it. When they were a little younger, he thirteen or so, they stayed at the same port in the Free Cities. Rickon had been quite the wildling back then, barely recognizable by anyone familiar with little Rickon Stark of Winterfell. Osha had died earlier that year, and he was still in grief for the woman who had been like a second mother then like a _real_ mother to him. He had been sent to her chambers on accident, while she had been laying low lest she be killed or imprisoned, and she made him a man. It was hurried and clumsy and lacking in passion, but, Gods Above, she was his _first_.

Rickon inwardly groaned at his own sentimentality. Who was he, now? _Sansa_?

"Always, but, I must admit, it's been challenging." He caught Shireen giving her former cousin an apologetic smile as she said so. "Some aren't willing to overlook the sins of one's parents."

_More that they're afraid that Tommen, may the Seven bless his damned soul, had already despoiled her before they could get their chance._

"And you, milday?" He asked, smirk playing on his lips. "You've likely been bombarded with offers from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. You're not the most beautiful of all ladies, but I imagine your holdings more than compensate for any power-hungry lord."

Shireen avoided his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable from his frankness. "Are you offering?" She questioned, bewildered as to his train of throught.

Rickon cringed, while Myrcella and Edric looked on in vague amusement. "My hand in marriage?! _Gods_ , no! Not even swine such as _I_ would inflict myself upon some poor, unsuspecting maiden." His eyes absent-mindedly darted to Shireen's cleavage, a habit he vowed he would rid himself of only to forget a fortnight later. Despite the reminders of Greyscale splattered about her face, he found her to be mildly attractve. Perhaps not a great beauty like Myrcella or a great charmer like Edric, but she was tempting enough for a man denied his right to orgasm merely an hour or so prior. 

"I do have _another_ sort of proposal, if you're interested in hearing," He added, voice smooth as silk and eyes dark with desire. "I should like to have a few minutes alone with Lady Baratheon and Lady Lannister, if the rest of you do not mind."

 

* * *

 

It didn't take much coaxing to get Myrcella to agree. She had experience with such deviances before, and it _had_ been a while since Rickon and she were carnally familiar. 

It was Shireen who didn't seem to know what to think. When led to his chambers, she continually wondered alloud as to what he could possibly have to show her. All the while, Myrcella insisted that it was necessary for her "development as a woman", her smile teetering the line between genuinely endeared and patronizing. 

The doors were opened, and they (as in, Myrcella and he) strolled into the room as though they had no care in the world. They made certain to lock the door behind them, and, from there, Shireen's nerves seemed to only increase. "M-Milord, what could you possibly have to show us that would require locking- locking the door?" 

Undoing his vest, he only smiled knowingly. "You'll see."

Myrcella started undressing as well, seeing that she had many more layers of clothing than Rickon. "Just follow our lead, sweetling."

Shireen chuckled nervously and did as told. "I-I still don't understand...." And she wouldn't until they were as naked as their name day. Rickon nearly burst out in laughter when the realization dawned upon her face, cheeks reddened and pupils dilated.

"So- So, wait, does this mean-?"

"Yes," Myrcella interjected.

"And we're-?"

"Essentially," Rickon interrupted.

"B-but _three people_ -?" 

"That's the plan," He replied. "Think of it this way," He continued, gentler this time as he approached her. "You'll lose your maidenhead to two people who care about you and don't want to see you in pain from a horrid lover of a husband." Starting off, he took a nipple between his fingers and toyed with her, experimenting with the restraints of the delicate skin. "So, whaddya say?"

Myrcella kissed down the side of her stepcousin's neck, elliciting a moan from the dark-haired Baratheon. "I- I think-"

Rickon bit down on the maiden's earlobe, "Don't think. Just feel."

He then felt a hand on his length, masterfully teasing him until he was rock-hard. "Myrcella," he moaned the name of the offender over and over, peppering in Shireen's name now and again. 

All the while, Shireen let out these adorable little squeaks and noises from their ministrations, traveling along her body and pushing her boundaries. He doubt she had ever felt the amount of pleasure in a lifetime than she had within that night, to be frank. The idea of someone living celibately made him shiver with dread that it could have been _him_ living sexless. Alas, this night was certainly not without its surprises.

This undoubtedly included Shireen coming to climax in the quickest amount of time he had ever witnessed. It had only been, what? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? Myrcella didn't seem to mind. She only led the girl down onto the bed, pushing her down so she was lying underneath her. And Rickon? He was right there, his fingers between their legs. 

That is, until...

"Ohh, Myr-Myrce-Myrcella!" Shireen cried out between soft huffs of pleasure muffled by her Lannister ward's alluring purs. It was then that he realized they had forgotten all about him. He scowled, though more confused than anything else. Forget him? No, no, it surely couldn't... He was Rickon Stark, the boy wonder of lovers in all of Westeros! Perhaps the whole world even! Had he...

Had he lost his magic touch? 

"Er- hey, ladies-" He reached out a hand between them, in hopes of worming himself in somewhere. They hadn't even noticed, so caught up in their own ministrations. He then took drastic measures, practically throwing himself on top of them. Like a pile of flesh and sweat and cum. Myrcella rolled her and Shireen out from under him, giving Shireen her turn on top.

Yet again ignored. Rickon was starting to feel a bit cheated about now. This was supposed to be a threesome, so why wasn't he getting any attention? Seven Hells, he was the only one in the room with a _cock for Gods' sake_! Just how many things _could_ two women do alone for pleasure?

 

* * *

 

Quite a lot of things, it soon became apparent. Several minutes had passed since they first entered his chambers, possibly even close to two hours, and already he was starting to lose track of how many different ways Myrcella made her dear stepcousin climax.

Actually, a couple of those things he could do without and even cringed in memory of. Certain techniques were too depraved - even for _Rickon fucking Stark_. This was the same sixteen-year-old who, in his immediate sexual history, had eaten dragon shit, masturbated to the mating of goats, warged into Shaggydog during mating season, licked wine off someone's ass, and much, much more all for the sake of sexual gratification. 

And, when they were done, the two girls laid down, panting from their near-two hour fuck session. 

"So, milord, I believe it is your turn?" Shireen whispered mischieviously.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon does what Rickon does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to my poor pacing, Edric will be showing up next chapter rather than this one.

Rickon sat in the lush, cushioned chair, frame lined in gold and cover laced with golden thread and gold, gold, _gold_. Even the Lannisters would have found it excessive. For some reason, he immediately thought of Myrcella before squashing that thought immediately, reminding himself that he hadn't seen her since their little... "alliance" with the Lady Baratheon a few months ago. All she was was another conquest, no more.

"Is everything to your liking, my lord?" Lady Alysane asked him solemnly, she the current matriarch of House Mormont and as fussy as the Seven Hells he was like to end up in.

"Oh yes, yes it is." Then, a pause. He shifted uncomfortably in wait, knowing that he had to have been called here for a reason. It wasn't a particularly long trip, nor was it an unpleasant one. However, he should like to have known it wasn't for nothing.

Instead of revealing her purpose though, the stubborn woman ordered the serving girl to fetch "Lord Stark" (he couldn't pretend to like the sound of that; they might mistake him for, Gods forbid, _Bran_ ) another glass of spiced wine. Now that he was thinking about it, that serving girl looked awfully tempting... He frowned, remembering the _last_ time he became intent on seducing a supposed servant. With his luck, he bet it was the younger Lady Mormont, or perhaps Edric Storm again in disguise. Edric _Baratheon_ , he reminded himself, his trademark mischievous smirk returning to him. 

"Tell me, what is it you find so amusing?" She ripped him from his inner-thoughts so easily despite having such a boring countenance.

"One might find such an invitation.... suspicious, is all. You've requested I come all this way, and for what?" He gestured his hands out towards the room in a fluid motion. "To exchange pleasantries over mediocre wine? No, you obviously have a bigger game you're playing."

The corner of her lips curled, either in amusement or scorn, or mayhaps both. He was not sure which it was, and the uncertainty started to frighten him a little.

"Must everything be a ploy? Some tool for one's amusement?" There was something in her tone that says: _"I should have expected this from the infamous Rickon Stark, lover of depravity and frolicker among corpses."_

He ground his teeth together, fighting the urge to snarl at the woman that that's just what it must be. _"If you're done with wasting my time and insulting my intelligence, I'd like to ready my things for my trip back, you stubborn, stuck-up, old bitch,"_ he wanted to say. And, if they had allowed him Shaggydog to keep them company, it would have been the direwolf's cue to snarl, eyes wild with bloodlust.

"Even so, I should like to visit with you anyhow, whatever your purpose may be, " he responded instead. _Thank me later, Brandon, for keeping the peace of the icy wastelands you call your home._

"I think you'll find us Mormonts suitable enough as far as company goes. The former King of the North certainly thought so." Perhaps that's where all the gold came from, he supposed.

Rickon sighed. He hardly pictured his long dead older brother quite right. Somehow, his face would always morph into Bran's or his own. He doubt he ever really knew his brother. Sure, they were "brothers", but brotherhood had been lost on him in the many years of hiding and sneaking about. After all this time, such ties meant little to him, as well as the intricacies of Westerosi society. Even now, with the years of adjustment gone like the flicker of a flame, it was difficult for him to grasp certain concepts of this lordlingship lifestyle. One such concept was subtlety.

"Many say that my eldest brother was a fool. That does little for your credibility, I'm afraid." And then he was gone, finding himself leaving the room before he couldn't restrain himself any longer. He had to learn to control his tongue better, but this was certainly a decent alternative to facing the music.

 

* * *

 

As always, he found comfort in a lover's embrace. In the end, he had decided to seduce the bewitching serving girl, part of him hoping that perhaps she _would_ turn out to be a lady of importance. Part of him found the idea of unveiling identities rather... _thrilling;_ a certain body part down south certainly thought so if its rise was any indication. As he took her from behind on a table of cherry oak and steel, he anticipated some outraged lord barging in and scolding him for him defiling Lady OthersTakeHer or something.

He probably shouldn't have been surprised when he found himself disappointed, yet he did, god dammit. The girl was anything but homely, willing at that. Somehow, though, he found himself wishing he were somewhere else, doing something entirely different. It couldn't just be her lack of status, as he had no trouble before in enjoying his beddings of commoners.

He still took his pleasure as he usually did, but somehow it didn't hold as much of his interest as it usually had. He frowned. Maybe it was because it was too easy. He was so skilled in the art of pleasure, he needed a challenge. Still, as he wandered through the halls, dazed and a little lost, he couldn't help but doubt that he could be simply _bored_ with sex. Who the hell was bored with sex, anyways? He found an exit, slowly pushing the thick doors as he thought of Bran and other cripples unable to perform. Not _enjoying_ sex... The mere idea seemed alien to him, like a pussy cat debating whether or not she could fly.

 _Silly me, cunts can't fly_ , Rickon thought to himself.

That is, until one fell from the sky.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna Mormont, the young Northern lady named after his long-dead aunt, had fallen right on top of him, sending them into a heap of flesh and clothing on the ground. Though the young Lady Mormont of the same name likely hadn't started any wars thus far, she was still a beauty to behold, with fair skin and a most pleasing figure. Nose long but elegant and eyebrows dark but shapely, her face was striking in a way most other faces weren't, though a nice face could hardly compete with the sheer amount of cleavage on display. Her dark hair, laying across her breasts, was long and oiled, flowing in the air at the wind's command. Really, she was a picture worth keeping, if he was the sort to keep to one woman at a time.

But, for all her loveliness, nothing could prepare the young wolf for the beautiful prose that left her lips, " _FUCK_ FUCKITY FUCKSHIT _DAMN IT_ FUCK!"

"Hello to you, too," Rickon muttered, having never been fond of strings of curses himself. He much preferred peppering it throughout his speech like a rare spice. If one just screamed several curses at a time at fairly regular intervals, cursing became a chore, a necessity rather than a bonus. It seemed the Lady Mormont did not have the same reluctance.

" _Who_ are you?" It seemed she did not remember the younger Lord Stark was coming to visit. Or maybe she was just stupid.

"Rickon," He then swatted the arm that had landed on his stomach, her elbows digging in uncomfortably. It seemed she did not get the hint.

"Who?" _Stupid works_ , he grimaced.

"Stark," He added, hoping that his house's name might ring a few bells. And it did, eyes alighting with recognition.

" _Ohh_..." She mumbled.

"Oh, indeed," He replied as the realization dawned upon her.

Then, she glanced down about them, as if realizing, for the first time, the compromising position they were in. " _OH!_ " She exclaimed and jumped off of him, almost as if appalled that she would be on top of him. Were northern women really still that behind the times? He could hardly imagine anyone only knowing of missionary-

" _fuck_ I _apologize_ milorditwill _never_ happen _again_!" He got up off the ground, dusting himself off nonchalantly. As if beautiful women with horrid conversational skills fell on him _all the bloody time_. 

"Tis fine, my lady, you did not offend as much as you might have liked."

"No, I- My lord Stark, I shouldn't have-" She insisted, though he couldn't see why she couldn't just leave it at a simple apology. He had already forgiven her anyways, so what was the point?  
 "It's fine, really," He responded, attempting a smile that would never again form in her presence.

"No, milord, you don't understand..." He raised an eyebrow, letting the false smile fall as he considered the various scenarios of what was about to unfold. "..We- Lord Stark, we're to be _married_."

"Well, _fuck_."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon grieves and schemes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to be updated and that the update is so shitty. Regained my motivation for my game of thrones fanfiction due to the excitement surrounding season 4, so I will be posting more frequently. :)

_I am to be wed._

Rickon stood there for a while, just staring out into the distance, beyond the woods and icy grounds of Bear Island. Over and over, the same phrase taunted him, round and round like the curved bed he had in Lys. Those words seemed so... so... bizarre, even when not spoken from his own tongue. Marriage had always seemed to be a travesty that happened only to others, an event one might watch from afar - nauseating yet so grotesquely  _"other"_ he could not look away. He had never suspected it would happen to him, nor had he ever thought it'd be this soon. He was far past a man grown. He was fast his nineteenth (twenty-second?) name day, and he wouldn't be ordered about by Bran, of all people. Bran the Cripple, his liege lord's loyal public referred to him behind his back. Bran the Greenseer. Bran the Child that Shouldn't Have Been.

Rickon inwardly sneered, feeling particularly cruel. On the outside, only a slight scowl and a queer look in his eye served as signs of the extent of his displeasure. No, his _anger_.

"Well, I apologize if I am not what you hoped for, my _lord_." The words might have been perfectly comforting from the mouth of another, but the way Lyanna had said it, it sounded more like an indignant moodswing of a girl undergoing her first moon's blood. Wasn't she supposed to be the older party here?

He grabbed her by the shoulders, a wild look in his eyes that caused the girl to flinch. "Hush, girl, do you realize what's to happen?!"

"...We're gonna get married?"

"No, _you_ are getting married," Rickon hissed, " _I_ am being quartered and chained like... like some prisoner of war!"

"I hardly think this is comparable to-" But whatever she was going to say was cut off by his ranting.

"Do you understand just how disastrous this will be? I'm _Rickon Stark_." He enunciated, hoping the girl wasn't quite as stupid as he thought her to be.

"And I'm Lyanna Mormont." And she disappointed him once again. How _refreshing_.

"I know. You said that, fifteen minutes ago, I believe," then he shook his head and let go of her shoulders. "But that's not the point! I'm not meant to be unleashed on some helpless girl on her wedding night."

" _Our_ wedding night, my lord," She corrected, crossing her arms over her chest.

"So you've kept insisting!"

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day was spent in mourning. Rickon- No, _Lord Stark_ was going through the motions, eyes looking without truly seeing, mouth moving without truly speaking. He wanted to see Osha. He wanted to see Shaggy Dog. Seven hells, he even would have tolerated bloody Bran Stark if the man were there right now! Nothing was going his way, and he was determined to sulk through it until things turned around. A familiar face or two, especially that of a family member, would have certainly lessened the pain, if nothing else.

However, the next familiar face he saw only filled him with scorn. Was he being _mocked_?

"Lord Baratheon?" Rickon greeted quizzically, smothering the urge to choke out an accusation. He did not completely forget his courtesies, after all. Not for the sheer amount of distance he wanted to place between himself and the recurring Edric Sto- Baratheon. Edric _Baratheon_. 

In greeting, the man flashed him a dashing grin. "I trust you haven't stayed out of trouble?" Damn him, why'd he have to be so damn nice? How dare anyone be so charming when he himself was miserable!

"Hm, you know me better than I thought, for a stranger I mean." He admitted sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Edric raised his eyebrows, "You call someone you _slept with_ a stranger? I'd hate to see how you treat your fiance." 

"You knew about-? Gah! Of course you knew." Rickon all but snarled, turning away.

The lordling rounded the table between them to sit himself down in a nearby seat, plush with velvet and golden stitching. "You don't sound very surprised."

"If you're here, then it's likely Bran's doing. Oh," He threw up his hands in defeat, " _I'm_ sorry- Lord Stark!"

Resting a hand on his knee, Edric Baratheon watched the beginnings of a fruitful meltdown with a wiry smirk- one that left Rickon with the most wicked urge to kiss off that damn face. Anything to wipe that damn satisfaction off his face. He wanted to provoke a reaction. He wanted to scream and throw a tantrum. The truth was, he hated feeling so boxed in and _proper_. He was long past tired of courtesies and manners.

"So- So what? He sent you here to babysit me? To make sure I fulfill the promise he made _for_ me?" His voice was panicked as he paced around his companion, hands wildly gesturing in a way that funnily enough mirrored his state of mind. "What did he offer in exchange? A banquet in your honor? An allowance to be sent monthly? Tell me, _Edric Storm_ ," He demanded, "What was your honor worth?"

Evenly, the other man finally responded. "Your sister's hand in marriage. The wild one fighting up North with my half-brother." Then, after a slight pause, he looked up at the offspring of Eddard Stark, the man who was best friends with his father. Who was supposed to be calm and dutiful. Who was nothing like his son. "I turned him down."

"W..what?" There was a time when all the lords and their sheep wanted his sisters' hands in marriage, largely Sansa's but it wasn't as though Arya didn't have her suitors. "Then, why are you even here?" Was he here to finish what they started at Winterfell?

To that, the other man stood up, time slowing to a crawl as the distance between them became smaller and smaller. Rickon wondered if Edric could hear him breathing. He probably could, the wildling lad decided. Maybe even hear the unsteady drum of his heartbeat, bodies drifting closer and closer. Until hands clasped at his shoulders and tightened their grip, a firm grip he noticed.

Then, refusing to break eye contact, Edric Baratheon whispered, "To help you, of course."

 

 


End file.
